


Here Is The Place

by schlicky



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hunger Games AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schlicky/pseuds/schlicky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Brad holds his breath; tries not to think of the nightmare he’d woken up from this morning, the one where a slip of paper with his name on it had been chosen. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Is The Place

**Author's Note:**

> for witchling

When he wakes up, it’s with a cold sheen of sweat covering his body. He can tell by the light that’s seeping in through the curtained window that it’s still too early to get up.

Brad rolls over and tries to go back to sleep. He tosses and turns for an hour before he decides that it’s useless and he rolls out of bed. He has a little over an hour before the rest of his family should be waking up to get ready for the morning.

The front door creaks when he opens it, and he pauses to be sure he didn’t wake anybody. After another minute or two of silence, he slips out of the house and closes it gently behind him.

Brad takes a seat on the front step, glad for the cool, early morning air. He can’t help but think that it all looks very peaceful.

There are other people outside at this early hour. If it were any other day, he would probably be surprised. But he’s not - not on this particular day of the year. It’s damn near impossible to sleep restfully the night before the Reaping.

The door behind him opens up, and Brad scoots over on the step to make room for his dad.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Brad asks him.

“I heard you open the door,” his dad answers, “but I was already awake.”

They sit shoulder to shoulder on the step and watch quietly as the rest of District 3 slowly starts to wake up.

 

=

 

The sun in the square is blinding. It’s a hot day made worse by the fact that they’re all crammed together waiting for the names of this year’s tributes to be pulled out of the lottery.

Brad looks up when he’s jostled and Poke gives him a grim nod in greeting. Nate is already on his other side. The three of them stand there quietly, listening to some of the chatter still going on around them.

The nervous chatter dies completely when the Reaping begins.

Their sponsor from the Capitol draws from the pool of females first, which is no different from how things usually proceed.

Priscilla Dunlap is the name that echoes through the air.

The hand goes into the bowl for the male tribute, and Brad holds his breath. He tries not to think of the nightmare he’d woken up from this morning, the one where a slip of paper with his name on it had been chosen.

He tries not to think about the friends who are standing next to him, or the ones who aren’t; the ones who are standing amongst the other age groups.

Walt, and Eric, and Ray.

Especially Ray. Ray has been his best friend for as long as Brad can remember.

He feels almost light-headed with relief when the next name that rings out is Andrew Fields. 

Not his. Not one of his friends.

_Poor bastards_ , Brad thinks as he watches the two kids standing on the makeshift stage.

Both of District 3’s new tributes are sobbing as they’re led away and the crowd starts to disperse. He guesses he can’t blame them. The girl is only thirteen, the boy a mere year older than her.

“Safe for another year,” Nate tells him somberly. He gives Brad a tight hug, clapping his back once before they break apart, Nate stepping away from him to search for his own family.

He and Poke share relieved smiles. “Only one more, dawg,” Poke tells him, and then he’s off into the crowd, too.

“Brad!”

Brad turns at the familiar voice and catches his sister, Erica, when she launches at him. He feels her arms wind tightly around his neck.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” she whispers. Erica wipes at her face when he sets her down, trying to get rid of the evidence of tears brought on by relief.

Brad smiles at her and brushes at the wetness on her face. “Come on, it can’t have been that bad,” he says gently. “At least you know your name’s not in it anymore,” he tells her.

She’s nineteen, now. Their parents have one less child to worry about being chosen.

“No, now I just worry myself sick about _you_ ,” she tells him, punching his shoulder.

His parents catch up with his sister and it’s clear that his mother has been crying, too. Brad wraps her up in a hug and kisses the top of her head. He doesn’t tease her when her face comes up even wetter than it was before the hug.

“Son, I’m glad you’re safe,” his father says, squeezing Brad’s shoulder.

“Me too,” Brad answers. He gives his mom another reassuring hug and then lets her go.

They head for home to spend some time together and to eat a very light lunch. Brad’s still hungry when they’re done, but it’s a familiar feeling. He reminds himself that they’re not as bad off as most of the families in this District.

Both of his parents, and now his sister, work hard to make sure of that. He helps his mom clean up the small kitchen space.

“Have you seen Ray?” she asks him when they’re done, and he shakes his head.

“I’m gonna go see him now,” Brad tells her, and she smiles at him.

“Of course you are,” she says. “Here, take this with you.”

Brad looks down at the small basket she puts in his hands. He lifts the corner of the towel to find some square rolls tucked inside. 

“It’s not a lot,” his mom says. “Things might be a little bit tight, but we can spare it.”

“They’ll really appreciate it.” Brad kisses his mom’s cheek and heads out the door. He travels quickly, returning greetings when they’re given. He comes up to the small house a couple of streets over.

Ray is outside. He looks up when he hears the footsteps approaching, and the grin that spreads across his face makes Brad’s chest tighten.

“Hey,” Brad greets him. Whatever he was going to say next is cut off by Ray’s arms around his neck, his mouth against Brad’s. The kiss is startling, but not entirely surprising. It feels like they’ve been hurtling towards this for months now.

It feels _right_.

Ray pulls away from him after a minute, his hands slapped over his mouth, his brown eyes wide with horror.

Brad thinks the red that’s creeping up his neck and into his cheeks sort of suits him.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry. I was just – this morning – and I was so relieved – and you – _shit_ , I’m sorry.”

“Ray, stop. Just shut up.” Brad sets the basket of bread down so that he doesn’t wind up dropping the damn thing, even though they’d eat it regardless. He takes Ray’s face in his hands and kisses him again.

Ray’s mouth is slick and warm and he tastes a little bit like honey, sweet but not cloyingly so.

When the second kiss ends, they look at each other and both start to laugh, tension melting out of their muscles.

Brad leans in and kisses him one more time, just because he can. He picks up the basket and pushes it into Ray’s hands. He makes sure their fingers brush together when he does it.

“What is this?” Ray asks. His lips are a little red and puffy, thoroughly kissed.

“Some bread,” Brad tells him. “From my mom.”

“Brad, we can’t take this from you,” Ray tells him, looking up at him.

Brad wonders how he didn’t see it before, the way Ray stares at him. Like he’s the only thing that matters. It seems so obvious now, and he wishes he’d kissed Ray a long time ago.

“Ray, please take it.” He doesn’t say that they don’t need it, because that’s not entirely true. They could all always use a little bit more. But they don’t need it the way Ray’s family does.

Ray looks like he wants to argue, but then he deflates and nods his head. He tucks the basket carefully under his arm and then picks up some wood from the pile to take inside with him.

Brad picks up a few more pieces off of the small stack and follows Ray into the house.

There’s not a lot of room inside. There’s a bed in the corner where Ray’s mom sleeps. The kitchen is cramped like everything else. There’s a loft overhead with a ladder to climb up into it. That’s where Ray and his two younger siblings sleep.

When Brad glances up, the kids are peering down at him through the wooden railing, grinning.

He recognizes the grins. He’s seen it on the face of everyone he’s encountered since this morning. Relief.

“Hi, guys.”

“Hi, Brad,” Alan and Clara chorus. It was Alan’s first year in the Reaping. Clara is still too young, thankfully.

Ray’s mom gives him a kiss on the cheek after Ray gives her the basket. Then she presses one of the square rolls into Ray’s hand, and one into his, and she ushers them back out the door, telling them to go have fun for a while.

Brad exchanges a look with Ray when they’re standing outside again.

They both grin and then take off for the field. They’ve spent a lot of time out there as kids, playing together, and with Nate and Walt and Poke. They were all safe today. Safe for another year, and the relief is nearly overwhelming.

They slow down when they hit the tall grass. They pick a spot in the middle of the field and sit down to carefully eat the square rolls Ray’s mom gave them. Brad knows that anyone standing on the edge of the field wouldn’t know they were out here, with how high the grass and weeds around them are.

“It’ll be different this year,” Ray says after a while, when they’re done eating. His hand finds Brad’s on the ground.

Brad turns his head to look at Ray, has to squint against the sun sitting high in the sky.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll be eighteen, Brad. You’ll be in the factory playing with circuit boards and shit instead of sitting in school,” Ray explains with a shrug. “Only one more year, and then you won’t have to worry anymore.”

“I’ll still worry,” Brad protests.

Ray lifts an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah?”

“I’ll worry about you for three more years,” Brad points out. “And Alan. Clara, when she becomes eligible. I’ll worry about everyone.”

Ray smiles at him, a soft thing that just curls up the corners of his mouth. “Because you’re not really the hard-ass you want everyone to think you are, Iceman.”

Brad is a little surprised when Ray scoots closer and rests his head on Brad’s shoulder. He smiles and presses a kiss into Ray’s hair, wrapping an arm around Ray’s back, pulling him even closer.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says.

Ray grins. “Not a soul,” he promises. 

 

=

 

Brad hates watching the Games.

He hates that the Capitol makes them watch it. The girl from their District doesn’t make it past the slaughter at the cornucopia. The boy makes it through the first night, but dies early the next day.

He hates watching the Games, because all he can think is, _Thank God it wasn’t me._

 

=

 

The months roll by slowly. His eighteenth and Ray’s sixteenth birthdays have come and gone, brought in without much fanfare. It’s not like they have a lot to celebrate, other than being one year closer to being out of the lottery.

Brad has managed to settle into working at the factory, and Ray is still plugging away in school.

They spend all the time together that they can. There’s no way that their parents don’t know that they’re more than friends with as much as they touch each other. With as many times as someone has walked in to find them sitting too close together, their mouths red and puffy, both of them breathing hard. But they haven’t been admonished for it.

Ray was supposed to meet him this morning. They were going to spend some time out in the field, just the two of them. After twenty minutes of waiting with no sign of Ray, Brad decides to abandon the field, go searching for him instead.

The most logical place to check first is home. One of the kids might have gotten sick.

Brad’s stomach plummets to his feet when he walks into the small house Ray shares with his family and he sees the grain and the oil.

Ray watches him look at it, his face grim.

“What did you do?” Brad asks softly, and Ray shakes his head.

“I had to.”

“Ray.”

“I _had_ to, Brad,” Ray snaps at him. “Do you think I _like_ putting my name in there more than I have to? I hate it. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, because you’ve never had to.”

“You should have asked me. We could have helped,” Brad says weakly.

“For a whole _year_ , Brad?” Ray asks. “And what happens when your mom gets sick, or your dad, and you can’t help anymore? Don’t fucking tell me how to take care of my family. I’ve been managing it since I was thirteen, since my dad died.”

“You call this managing it?” Brad asks, gesturing at the sack. “Ray, this is going to get you _killed_.”

“What the fuck else was I supposed to do, Brad?” Ray is shouting at him now. “Let them starve to death? Fuck you. You don’t understand what it feels like to watch your kid sister cry her self to sleep because she’s so fucking hungry it hurts. It’s not something you’ll _ever_ understand.”

Brad storms out of Ray’s house and walks through the District for a long time. He spends hours going around in circles, thinking about everything that Ray has said to him. He knows that it’s not a decision Ray ever makes lightly.

It occurs to him that he’s not angry with Ray. Just scared. Scared that the worst is going to happen because Ray’s name is in there another 4 times.

When Brad makes it back to Ray’s house, it’s almost dark. Ray’s mom is home now and she opens the door when he knocks softly. She looks exhausted, but she smiles at him and lets him in, gesturing him up the ladder, into the loft.

Brad can see Alan and Clara curled up on their mom’s bed, where she joins them a moment later. He climbs up and crawls over to Ray, stretching out next to him. Brad pillows his head on his arm and kisses the tip of Ray’s nose.

Ray watches him silently, looking more tired than Brad has seen him look in a long time.

“Goddamn it, Ray,” Brad says softly. “I’m sorry.”

“What was I supposed to do, Brad?” Ray asks him miserably, his volume matching Brad’s.

“No, I know, I just—” Brad trails off because he doesn’t know what to say. Ray didn’t have a choice; he knows that. He had to do it in order to save his family. “I hate the Capitol.”

“Brad, don’t say shit like that. What if they hear you?” Ray stares at him. “You can’t leave me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“It’s okay,” Brad tells him quietly and pushes a hand through Ray’s hair. “Neither of us is going anywhere any time soon, I promise.”

Ray’s mouth opens up under his and they lie there for a few minutes, exchanging soft kisses.

Brad tugs Ray closer and slides his hand down Ray’s stomach, into his pants. He wraps his fingers around Ray and starts to stroke firmly, pressing kisses against his mouth, swallowing every little noise Ray makes in response.

After a few minutes, Ray is shuddering in his arms, his breath hitching in his throat.

Brad kisses Ray softly one last time before they go to sleep.

 

=

 

One of the things that Brad hates the most about the Capitol is that subjecting all of the Districts to the Games isn’t enough for them. It doesn’t end there.

The Victory Tour begins and they’re forced to celebrate the winner from District 4. A Career who was bred for the Games; whose odds of winning was higher than most of the other tributes who were unfortunate enough to have their names drawn.

He wonders what the victor thinks as he stands up there and looks down at the inhabitants of District 3.

What is he thinking as he’s forced to look into the eyes of the families of the tributes he killed? He hadn’t personally killed Priscilla or Andrew, but it had been the pack of Careers that had done it. By association, he was just as guilty.

Is there remorse?

Brad can’t help but wonder what that feels like. To be forced into a situation where it’s kill or be killed, hunt or be hunted. To make it out of that arena alive, against all of the odds, and then have the Capitol force you to parade around the Districts in flashy, bright colored outfits like you’re some kind of hero.

He hates the Capitol more and more with each passing day. The hatred and anger has become part of him, an incurable itch in his veins, just under the surface of his skin.

This isn’t a celebration.

It’s a reminder that in six more months, it all starts over again.

Brad longs for a day when the people of the Districts decide that they’ve had enough. When they rise up to fight against the Capitol and make it all come crumbling down.

He longs for a day when they aren’t made to suffer like this anymore.

 

=

 

The field is the one place they can go that feels safe, somehow. Where it’s just him and Ray, and they can forget about everything else for a while. They can forget the factory and the Peacekeepers and the Capitol. The constant hunger, the suffering, and the fear all melt away.

Brad is stretched out in the tall grass, one arm pillowed behind his head. He turns to squint at Ray lying next to him, and smiles when he realizes that Ray has been propped up on one elbow, watching him.

“What?” he asks.

Ray smiles at him and shakes his head in response to Brad’s question. He moves closer to Brad and cuddles up against his side, his head on Brad’s shoulder, his arm sliding across Brad’s stomach to rest there.

It’s too hot of an afternoon to be pressed this close together, but Brad isn’t going to complain. He loves getting to spend time like this with Ray. He winds his free arm around Ray’s shoulders and gives him a squeeze.

“I’d like to see it someday,” Ray says softly.

“See what?” Brad asks him.

“The Capitol.”

Brad stares silently up at the clear, blue sky for a long time, processing that. Eventually, he feels Ray shift and when he looks down, Ray is looking up at him, waiting for him to say something.

“Why would you want to go there?” Brad wants to know. “Why would you want to go to that place when they do this to us? When they don’t give a shit about us? They fucking kill us for their _entertainment_ , Ray. We’re nothing to them. Less than nothing.”

“I don’t know. I wonder what it’s really like.”

“I hope you never see it,” Brad tells him. “Because if you’re in the Capitol, then that means you’re a tribute, Ray. That means you’ve been picked for the Games, and they’re sending you to your death.”

They’re both quiet for a long time.

“It’s just hard to believe there’s a place where they don’t want for anything,” Ray murmurs, pillowing his head on Brad’s shoulder again. “Where they don’t know what hunger feels like.”

Brad presses a kiss into Ray’s hair. “We don’t have it as bad as some of the Districts,” he says. “We could be in 12.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m not hungry.” Ray shifts closer, tangling their legs together. “I’ve always been jealous of you, you know. People like you and Nate Fick. You don’t know what it’s like to have to beg for food. To trade for tesserae so that your family can eat, knowing you’re just putting yourself in more danger so they don’t starve.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that we’re still in that bowl, Ray,” Brad says gently. “Anyone can have their name pulled out of it; even a twelve-year old kid whose name is only in there one time. It’s happened in some of the other Districts. It could happen in this one, too. The odds aren’t in _anyone’s_ favor.”

Ray sits up then, pulls away from Brad. Brad sits up, too, their shoulders brushing.

“Brad, my name is in there _three times_ more than yours, and I’m two years younger than you are,” he says quietly. “I think my odds are a little worse.”

“There are plenty of kids whose names are in there more than the standard. Hasser’s is. Garza’s.” Brad reaches out and takes Ray’s hand in his, holding onto it tightly. He feels Ray’s fingers curl around his.

“Not as many times as mine,” Ray points out. “They only have them and their parents. They don’t have siblings to worry about.”

“It’s gonna be okay, Ray. Nothing bad is going to happen to you,” Brad tells him firmly.

“You don’t know that, Brad.”

Brad gives Ray’s hand a squeeze and then he tugs it up to his mouth to kiss Ray’s knuckles.

“I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” he promises.

 

=

 

He can tell just by watching the behavior in the District that the day of the Reaping is drawing closer. The smiles are turning more strained. There’s tension in the air that feels thick enough to cut with a knife.

He’s one of the lucky ones, he knows. The odds of his name being drawn are smaller than most.

It’s not very comforting.

 

=

 

The day of the Reaping is grey and dreary. Fitting, Brad thinks. He wakes up pressed tightly to Ray’s back, his arm wound over Ray’s waist. At some point during the night, Alan and Clara moved closer to them in the loft, curled up on Ray’s other side.

One of Ray’s hands is holding one of Clara’s tightly, even in sleep.

She’s safe for one more year, and Brad’s grateful. It’s one less thing that Ray has to worry about.

Alan’s name is only in that bowl twice. Ray has made sure his brother hasn’t had to suffer any additional entries, even if it meant his own name going in again.

Ray stirs, and Brad presses a warm kiss to the back of Ray’s neck. He doesn’t say good morning, because it’s _not_ a good morning. It’s the worst morning of the year. Brad tries to smile when Ray turns over in his arms to face him. He puckers his lips when Ray’s fingers come up to trace his mouth.

“Hey, Brad?” Ray asks softly, the pads of his fingers still resting against Brad’s bottom lip.

“What?”

“Lie to me.”

“What?” Brad asks again, brows knitting together.

“Tell me it’s going to be okay.” Ray’s fingers fall away from Brad’s mouth, and Brad licks his lips. They taste faintly of salt.

“It’s going to be okay,” he answers.

Ray’s mouth twitches and he leans in to kiss Brad softly. They lie there and stare at each other for a few moments, Brad’s fingers trailing gently over Ray’s jaw. Eventually, Ray’s the one to break the silence again.

“If the worst happens today, I want you to know—”

“Stop it,” Brad interrupts him. “It’s not gonna happen.”

“But Brad, if it _does_ —”

“It won’t,” Brad firmly tells him. He stares back at Ray, unwavering, until Ray swallows hard and nods his head.

They start to hear the soft noises of Ray’s mom moving around below them, and they know they have to get up, start getting ready. Brad pulls Ray into a long, tight hug before he leaves.

“I need to go see my parents and my sister before the Reaping,” he murmurs, and he feels Ray nod against him. “I’ll see you there.”

“Okay.”

Brad kisses the curve of Ray’s jaw and reluctantly lets him go. He makes his way through the broken streets. No one he sees along the way is happy. There are some attempted smiles, but they all turn to more of a grimace.

It’s a morning where everyone is wound so tightly with fear. A fear that, for most of them, won’t dissipate the slightest bit until two names are drawn out of those wretched bowls.

For two families, that fear will be immeasurably increased until the Hunger Games are over. And then, more than likely, that fear will turn to grief for their lost loved one.

He spends the little time left before they’re to report with his parents and sister, eating a small breakfast, changing out of the clothes he slept in.

They make their way to the square together, his mom on one side and his sister on the other, both of them holding his hands tightly. Brad hugs them all and then falls into line to check in. He barely pays attention when they prick his finger, already looking for Ray. He spots him, finally, bent down to say something reassuring to Alan before they’re split up into their age groups.

Ray tries to smile at him when he sees Brad looking, but then the Peacekeepers are barking orders at them, and they have to fall into place.

Their spokesperson – her name is Glenna – has chosen a shockingly blue dress that has an ornate matching hat. The fabric is pulled and bunched and rippled to make it look like water. Something made out in District 8, Brad’s sure.

“Happy Hunger Games!” she chirps at them, her teeth looking all the more white against the bright color smeared on her lips.

Just like every other year, they’re forced to relive the story of the rebellion before the names are drawn. Brad tunes out until Nate, who’s standing next to him, elbows him in the ribs.

When he looks up, a slip of paper is already being pulled out of the bowl full of potential female tributes. He has this horrifying, gut-wrenching fear that it will be his sister’s name on that paper before he remembers that she can’t be a tribute. Erica is older than he is.

She made it through without ever being chosen. This is his last eligible year. Maybe he’ll make it, too.

Brad recognizes the girl who is chosen as the female tribute. He knows her from school, but he hasn’t ever spoken to her. Her name is Trina, and she’s seventeen. He admires the way she straightens her shoulders as she walks up to the stage. There are tear tracks on her face, but she doesn’t make a sound. She’s trying to be strong even though her family is crying, maybe already mourning.

“And the male tribute.” The only sound in the District is the muffled sobs of the first tribute’s family as Glenna’s hand dips into the second bowl, pulling another name. Time seems to stop as she unfolds the piece of paper she’s selected. She flashes that horrible smile and leans into the microphone.

“Joshua Ray Person!” rings out across the square.

His gaze snaps to Ray at the exact moment that Ray looks at him; Ray looks stunned, sick. Scared. Brad doesn’t think about it, doesn’t hesitate. He pushes his way through the crowd and says it very clearly, without a tremor in his voice.

“I volunteer as tribute.”


End file.
